The Death of My Computer: News and Insults

So my computer died. Again. This time I turned the machines off, instead of keeping it in a vegetative state for a couple weeks and then taking it to rehab for 8 months. What did I lose this time?

a few songs, a little dance, a little seltzer in my pants, not to mention all known photos of one malapropizing ex-boyfriend (and sorry to say E., that really awesome arty photo I took of you and was always encouraging you to use in a personal ad)

It was traumatic, but I am becoming quite good with trauma these days. The saddest part for me was buying a new computer because I made an actually responsible adult decision and didn't get the super sleek, shiny, fabulous G4 powerbook. Instead, I bought the sensible, cute, functional, $1000 less and still amply-performing iBook. Did I have the money for a powerbook? Yes and no. Technically, I have the cash, but what do we become when we just start blowing $1000 because we can? I would be like one of those women I always see at the drive-thru of starbucks (shut up) in their land rovers*. I look at them and think (judge): Honda anyone?

So speaking of judging, here is the heart of what this post is really about. Yesterday, M! kindly went with me to buy my new computer, during which time we were forced to endure what M! described upon exiting as "NerdsNerdsNerdsNerdsNerdsNerdsNerdsNerdsNerds." Indeed. So the guy who was "helping" us at the store was like grand-high nerd. I'm surprised he didn't have his Dungeons and Dragons code name (or whatever) on his business card. Anyhow, as el Nerdo Supremo del Dia (yes M2, el nerdo de los muertos), I thought, heck, maybe we can shoot the breeze while you take painfully long to install memory that I could have installed myself (because, as mentioned: nerd).

So I said: Hey, you look familiar. Did you go to Rice?
He: No, did you go to Rice.
Me: Uhh, yep. (No. I just asked you if you went because you seemed brilliant, guy in puffy, black not-sneakers and awkward-shade-of-denim jeans.)

He went on to ask me if I liked it, (People always ask this. Why?) and it started to dawn on me. I didn't ask him if he went to Rice because *he* looked familiar. I mean, yes, something was familiar about him, but not his face. What I realized, right before the inevitable *oh crap! I am still a bad person!* dawning, was that what I should have asked was: Did you go to Rice? I am asking because you are unattractive/awkward/snorty enough to have gone to Rice.

Further, he was quick to add that he had friends at Rice (hey dude, so did I!) as if to be like: Hey, I can hang.

That's great man. Hey--say hi to your buddies at the Renaissance Festival!

*A little note on these land rover women. Why do they always(always) have their hair in this ponytail that was probably planning to be a bun, but instead ISN'T, so the long ends splay out in waterfall fashion at the crown of their heads? This deliberate jauntiness clearly trying to pass itself off as pert and perky irritates me beyond belief. Like your fake nails, land rover lady (lrl), they're a bit staged.

Or As They Say in French: The Best is Ready to Begin!

I have not gotten any tv channels for over a year. And I am totally fine with this. I began to realize how much of a time suck tv totally is. I mean, do I miss VH1 and Movies That Rock? Duh. I also *love* the 80s something fierce. I have missed, really, being an involved The Bachelor(ette) watcher and even swayed A. to Tivo the Apprentice for me. I admit it. I'm not over tv entirely. I long for the days when I sat down and watch TBS for multiple hours in order to relive the Saved by the Bell glory days. But nothing has really pushed me to getting cable. Nothing until this. How could I miss sharing the laughter and love? I don't know if I can forgive myself.

For those that have known/met me only since I haven't had tv, I find it hilarious that they often think I am too principled or too cultured or snobby or anti-establishment or something to have tv. The fact is I *love* tv. If I had it, I would watch it all the time and never do anything or go anywhere. "I approve of tv. In fact, I think it is awesome*." My friends can bear witness to this story. "Mary, if you make one more allusion to Family Ties, it will cease to be weird and begin to be sad."

*Not to mention enjoying quality re-run programs like The Jeffersons, or Fact of Life.

The Hilarity of Spam

Have you ever received a spam email and whatever it was caught your eye and cracked you up so much that you wanted to save the email, like it was something important or coherent or from someone you knew?

Well shut up; that happens to me all the time. I actually forward people spam I have received.

Tonight I got one addressed to Malevolencedrone.

Yes, Malevolencedrone. Is that not the the best thing ever?

Even though, no, I do not wish to increase my penis size, I will now only respond to Malevolencedrone.

I know lots of technology peops are trying to wipe out spam and while I agree it needs to be done, some day I'll look back and miss these days.

P.S. Can anyone tell me how to find naked pictures of Britney Spears or How I Can Please My Woman? I have looked everywhere on the internet for this type of assistance, but so far it has eluded me.

Update: I just got *another* email for Malevolencedrone! And I got asked on a date by Free Lesbian Ezine. (I declined with regrets.)*

*Respectfully submitted.

To invite: 1) Friend 2) Friend 3) Assclown 4)Friend

There are certain topics on which even I amaze myself with the vehemence of my opinions. These are things which might matter in a given situation, but in the grand scheme of things? Yeah, I am aware they are not of global importance. And yet, they really get me quite jazzy. One such subject is that of the Evite. I am quite a fan of Evite. It is free (huzzah!) and can be managed from My Yahoo! start page. They don't spam and typically leave you alone, despite the frequency with which you may enjoy their services. It is a great way to manage guest lists, send reminders, organize food preparation, make comments of an offensive nature without replying to all, and paste generally pointless pictures onto a web site to no apparent end. You see? I'm all for fun and games.

"Fun and games, anyone?"

Mary T: Yay!

But here is what absolutely gets my goat: Assclowns*.

That's right.

My guess is that most of you have been on one evite or another in which one of the guests who usually does not know many or any of the other invitees (typically male, because women do not really have the sort of chutzpah required to be absolutely retarded in front of strangers) puts that he is coming and he is bringing 49 additional guests. And he thinks this is so brilliant, clever, and groundbreaking. But really, this guy is an assclown. He has now turned an event which was ancticipating responses from approximately 8-10 people into a huge affair in which you have to view all the Yes/No/Maybe responses separately because evite thinks you are expecting a mob. This also derails the easy ability with which the host(ess) can gauge attendance and plan food. Yes, she can just subtract 49 from the responses, but why? WHY?!

Attention: Assclown? Please step out of line so I can proceed straight to kicking the sweet, ever-loving crap out of you.

Of course, these Assclowns do not limit themselves to the realm of the Evite. No. They are constantly throwing a monkey wrench into well-laid plans, not for the sake of comedy, but for the sake of being a complete pain in the ass. I have known quite a few of these in my day, but it is to my credit that none of them have ever made my permanent guest list. I had a perfect other assclown example ready, but by the time I finished hollerin' about Evite cowboys, I was too rattled to remember the other one. But know that it's a good one. And they're out there.

*A brief explanation of assclown and its etymology. Basically, asshole + stupid clown-that-no-one-likes-(because clowns are scary and not funny)who-would-probably-be-relegated-to-playing-the-keyboard-if-any-of-his-alleged-friends-ever-formed-a-band= assclown.

"I Hit My Head on the Toilet-- and I Drew This."

JANE magazine needs a flux capacitor.

Have you ever subscribed to a magazine? Chances are good that you have or are, currently. I, myself, subscribe to three magazines, despite my battle cry of "WE DON'T WANT ANY MAGAZINES!" in response to every knock on the front door since age 18.

So if you have ever subscribed to a magazine, you have no doubt realized that in addition to getting your monthly magazine (if the mail carrier is in a good mood or the possums next door are behind on their reading), you also get approximately 18 MILLION renewal requests*. And when do you begin to receive these? Sometime between the second you send off the little "Yes! I Want Lame-O Magazine!"card and the EIGHT (hundred) weeks it takes to get your subscription started. Why does it take so long? Evidently, your card has to be delivered to Renewal Request Office of Supremo Irritation at which time your name and address will be entered into every database known to humanity, and probably by some small child who neither speaks English, nor wears shoes, in order that she might earn the $0.08/day that Sally Struthers suggests pays for her keep. ($0.08 doesn't even pay for the tax on my coffee in the morning, but I am a spoiled asshole American. It would certainly not support even one of my various habits, let alone my healthcare, food, rent, and loin cloth.)

Now, if you're a normal person, you probably just trash these annoying reminders immediately and don't think a thing about them. But I am a person who prefers to wade through every excruciating detail of my life in order that my OCD tendencies might have room to breathe. I like to read, consider, stack, re-consider and shred all paper that comes through with my name on it and then transfer it to a recycling bin. On average I handle each little request for my already present patronage approximately eighty times before it ever leaves my custody for that big vat of recycled paper porrige in the sky.

So having actually read these, I submit that the sales dynamos at these magazines are sleeping on the job. I mean, what genius said: "I know--we'll recruit new customers by simply treating our old customers like new, *retarded* customers! Aha!"?? The dynamos obviously have no concept of time, either. Even if it took fully eight weeks to process my subscription request (because apparently, magazine subscription requests can only be delivered by Pony Express), that's still only two months. But my renewal request said this: "Mary, act now to keep from missing any issues." My subscription ends in April. April 2005. So that's 2,3,4...a lot of months from now.

What?

Is it because magazines are one of the few remaining periodicals that we actually prefer to get on paper? Seriously, I think there is something to my Pony Express theory. Oh yeah, and the underage workers covered in paper cuts from sorting all the regular renewals from the new people who are only subscribing to get the (never good) free gift theory.

So what was the point of this rant? Awareness? Suggested consumer action? Nope. Just airing my lungs. Y'all missed me, didn't you? I know you did.

*Not to be confused with the 11ty kajillion "subscribe now!" cards glued in every other page of the magazine. No, these are an entirely different type of irritation.

"Hello. It's Me. I've thought about you for a long, long while."

How many people do you call and say "Hey, it's Me," when they answer? Okay, how many of those people have any freaking clue who "me," is? (I mean, maybe you have a very distorted sense of intimacy with strangers and when you call Blockbuster video and they say "Hello, Blockbuster. We freaking suck. This is Bobby Teenager; how may I harm you?" you respond with "Hey, it's me." It could happen. People are deranged. And I don't discount you, gentle reader, from this possible type of psychosis.)

The "Hey, it's Me, " phenomenon kind of fascinates me. I was considering phone etiquette yesterday after a brief and perplexing conversation with our receptionist, Trash, about how I "talk so proper on the phone." (I write even gooder!) The irony of course is that my phone hijinx know no bounds with those whom I really care about.

In the examples below, I am always the caller (except in the case of the phone call with my sister in which we are interchangeable because really--art imitates life), and though these people all have Caller ID, our inability to be formal with one another, except in our formal lack of formality, is fun times:

Ringy dingy.
My mom: Is Mary there?
Me: Is this the Muno T residence? Is Muno T in residence?
My mom: Let me go check.... no, she's napping right now.
Me: What are you doing?....
(This exhange is not only typical; it is basically exactly the same every time I call and has been for years. Sometimes my mom varies what the Muno who is unavailable is doing.)

Ringy dingy.
M!:What's happenin' foo?
Me: Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaatt F----------------------------! You don't have to put on that red dress to-night!

Ringy dingy.
Erin:Yo.
Me: Hey.
Erin: Hey.
--conversation proceeds as if we were already in the middle of it--

Ringy dingy.
My sister: Noonan speaking.
Me: Hello??? Are you there??? Is this Noonan?
My sister: Hello Noonan.
(sometimes she calls me Auntie, Angie, Beverly, Larry Potter or many variants from a long list of names, instead of Noonan)

Ringy dingy.
Steve: Hellah?
Me: Steven Q. Public? Hellah? It's Interplanet Janet. We met at the intergalactic club last month.
Steve: Hellah? What are YOOOOOOOOOOOU doing?

Then there are the people that I try to come up with something new and different every time they answer, even though they well know that it is me. Some of the favorites in my repertoire include:

"Is your refrigerator running?"
"Is this [name], the travelling salesman?"
"Hello, you've just been selected the obscene caller of the month."
"Is this KFC? How large are your breasts?
And if your name is John, I *will* call and ask "Hello, do you have a john there?" ha ha!

Often, I like to improvise though. I have so much fun with my regular phone people (note: many more people are my regular phone people than those listed. Basically, all of my close friends get a "hey, it's Me," at least), that it's almost disappointing to talk to a regular person. I am sure that all of you have these "Hey, it's Me" people, too. You can just throw yourself in-- no "Hello, Person? Hi, this is Mary,"-- and run with it and they never question, never ask "what in sam hell are you talking about? I'm hanging up you crazy teenager!" Have you ever stopped to appreciate how absolutely wonderful that is? How lucky you are to have someone that knows your voice, knows your game, and still answers the phone anyway?

I am very lucky indeed.

I laugh at everything. Because I am awesome.

Okay, it's been kind of a crap week around the office, so I have been desperately trying to distract myself from work for a few minutes here and there. I just noticed the "gigs" section on Craigslist and decided to check it out. Good thing! It was there that I came upon this gem (pasted below).

looking for a co-author for screenplay

---------------------------------------
Reply to: anon-43358864@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-09-23, 10:51AM CDT


I've only recently become interested in writing a screenplay but already have several ideas. I'm looking for someone (the more experience the better) to help with any of the following ideas:

a comedy that will be enjoyed by people that like Ben Stiller or Will Ferrell
a romantic comedy
a comedy or thriller depending on how we treat it.

There is no compensation for this. Of course, if somehow we actually can sell the product, we can talk about how to split the proceeds.

Wow! Great ideas! Yeah, I'd definitely want to write a screenplay with somebody with that kind of creativity! This is what I would pose to him, as his partner. "I have an idea for a screenplay. It will have words, a beginning, a middle, and an end. Pretty deep, huh? You want in?"

I'm sorry if you don't think this is funny. You obviously suck.

Most Gayest Realtor?

So yesterday I was perusing Craigslist as usual and saw a posting for what seemed like a GREAT apartment. I mean, it was located in the Galleria, but it was sort of deluxe and not deluxely priced, so whatever. So I emailed the guy, who turned out to be an apartment locator and a very flamboyant one at that. Now, I have a strict policy when it comes to apartment locators: do not use apartment locators, so as soon as this guy told me that this deluxe apartment only took dogs under 25 pounds, I said: thanks for your help, but I am not interested in your services since this apartment does not suit my needs. I should not have emailed him back at all, though I must say, the emails that ensued were rather amusing.

First, though I will not give this realtor's name (karma and all), I will say that it rhymes with "Irie," which is sort of ironic, considering that if this guy were really irie in that ganja-smokin' Rastafarian way, he might be somewhat chill. He is not even somewhat chill. Second, he uses a portion of the Irie-esque name in quotes between his first and last name, much like how some people refer to me as Mary "Bad News Bears" T (no one actually refers to me like this, because that would be absurd). Third, he is completely flamboyant. I realize I have used that word twice now, but had you interacted with him at all, you would understand that there is no more apt word than that.

After I emailed him back originally telling him my dog was in excess of 25 pounds (muchly in excess, I thank you), he then proceeded to email me multiple pictures of his three Pomeranian dogs, which he kept calling his Baby Pom Boys. No lie.

I then received FIVE subsequent emails with specific instructions to open EVERY email he sent me as they would all contain different apartment listings (really? I was not aware of how email works.). The listings were 1) brightly colored-- by which I mean mostly pink and aqua, 2) all WAY out by the Beltway, 3) for huge complexes, as opposed to the 10-unit complex I had emailed him about 4) did not all take dogs; most did not take large dogs and 5) WTF?! No. Stop emailing me!

So that was interesting enough, but when I get home, I find he's left me two messages on my call notes. The first is about how he wants to be my only apartment locating representative. (Dude, I sent you one email-- can we not get possessive?) The second, was sort of like a P.S. (Quick background: My yahoo email involves the name of Holly Golightly, a character from the book/movie Breakfast at Tiffany's. Though my email to him clearly stated my full name, he kept calling me Ms. Mary Golightly.) His second phone message was him gushing like a teenage girl about what an unusual and cool last name I have and how he won't soon forget me. Okay.

Now it's your call. Is this man flamboyant? Or would you simply deem him "most gayest realtor"?

How I Knew I Didn't Love You #2

As I vowed in How I Knew I Didn't Love You #1, I am posting each thing I think of that reminds me that I will never love you* because...

-You drive a camaro.
Corrollary: You have no sense of irony.

-You littered and showed no remorse or even demonstrated that you were throwing caution to the wind in a reckless and uncharacteristic-of-you manner.


* You is a general you. I don't actually not love you, in particular. I might not love you in particular though. Hard to tell. Check the list.

"I hate certain people and certain shoes."

This photo sort of encompasses that whole sentence, from one of my favorite movie rants. What are those shoes about, Donny?

PSA About Spelling-- yes, another one.

If you are so moronic as not to know how to spell correctly the name of a word that is part of your business, you should perhaps look that up before you have signs made to hang outside your business establishment.

Laundramat? Um, no.

Donut Palase? WRONG.

The number of misspelled proprietary signs left me reaching for my eyeballs with my pocket knife, for gouging purposes. Of course, I was on a two hour trip in deep east Texas, so the typical per capita rate might be somewhat, well, dense, here. But still: yo.

And one more thing. The first time I encountered the following error, it was from a young man notorious for malapropisms and often made-up "almost words" (See "obterred" in the dictionary. Oh wait, you can't. It's NOT THERE.); so naturally, I sort of chalked it up to chalking it up regularly for him. But I have since encountered this error, not once, but on four other occasions, presumably by unique parties.

Folks, if you're not a professional at something you do, you are said to be an amateur. You got that? AMATEUR. One r. At no time, was there ever a word: armature. It sounds a bit like armchair, and yet, not. Not anything at all. As though ar- was a prefix tacked on to mature to indicate someone who was not quite ripe as a profressional. Guess what. Ar- is only a prefix for pirates. And even then it walks a fine line (the plank, perhaps?) between "prefix" and "entire vocabulary."

I realize that I bitch a disproportionate amount about spelling, relative to the problems of the world, but when are people going to stop being retarded? On that day, I will bitch no more forever.

Or to paraphrase a very sage Chinese restaurant marquee in Houston: I will truly and sincerely bitch in order that I may not have to bitch anymore, forever. (Props, Ming's!)